Noelle’s POV:

“--and the writers completely destroyed his character arc after season five. There was this one episode where–”

Sammy’s still going, but I can’t focus on a single word. My eyes have locked onto the front door where Elliot just walked in with Danny and the rest of their group. I’ve never seen someone fill out a henley quite like that, and it’s frankly offensive to my current emotional state.

I hold up my water bottle of Malibu. Empty. Great.

“Sorry, Sammy. I need a refill,” I say, cutting her off mid-rant. She waves me away, already pulling her phone out to show someone else her screenshots of problematic dialogue.

I push off the washing machine, steady myself, and head for the kitchen. The room sways slightly at the edges. It’s not spinning yer, but definitely tilting.

Perfect. Four shots in and I’m still painfully sober enough to have functioning eyes and a functioning heart that’s currently trying to jackhammer out of my chest.

The kitchen is packed with people crowded around a makeshift bar of half-empty bottles. I scan for something that will numb whatever the hell just happened to my nervous system when Elliot walked in.

“Hey Noelle, from our connection class, right?” A hand brushes my shoulder. I turn to find Christian–the guy who was late on the first day–standing too close to me.

“That’s me,” I say.

“We should grab coffee sometime,” he says, leaning in.

“Noelle!” Danny appears beside me. “There you are.”

Christian’s expression flickers, annoyed at the interruption.

“Hey, man,” Christian says, “we were just–”

“Actually, I need to borrow her,” Danny says to Christian before he turns to me. “Do you want to go outside? I brought some stuff that’s way better than whatever they’re calling alcohol in here.”

I nod, relieved for the escape even though I’m not entirely sure why I need escaping.

“Thanks for the save,” I say as we step onto the porch.

“Christian’s a dick,” Danny says simply. “He was shying some shit earlier. You’d want to bleach your brain after.”

I’m about to ask for details when the food swings open behind us.

“There you are!” Harlowe bursts onto the porch, slightly breathless. “I’ve been looking for you, for like, ten minutes,”

Danny crocuses down and pulls a bottle of whiskey and several Dr. Pepper cans from underneath the steps. “What’s up Harlowe?”

She turns to me, eyes wide with anticipation. “Is Elliot here? Have you seen him?”

“Elliot?” Danny repeats. “Yeah. We just got her like ten minutes ago. I’m pretty sure he’s inside somewhere…Why?”

Harlowe’s eyes light up. But she tries to play it cool when she turns to Danny. “I just need to ask him something for class.”

Danny hands me a cup of whiskey and Dr. Pepper. It tastes better than the jungle juice inside.

“I need to find him,” Harlow says as she grabs my arm. “Come help me look.”

“But I just–” I gesture to my fresh drink.

“Bring it,” she insists. She leans in close enough for Danny n0t to hear. “Be my wingman like you promised.”

“Fine,” I sigh, allowing Harlowe to pull me toward the door. I look back at Danny, hopeful for another rescue, but he just raises his cup in mock toast.

Back inside, Harlowe drags me through the crowd like I’m luggage with a broken wheel. We end up on a couch with questionable stains, and she immediately starts scanning the room with an intensity that would make FBI agents look lazy.

“Do you see him?” she asks with her leg bouncing up and down.

I take a sip of Danny’s concoction before I let myself look. My eyes find him immediately, like they’ve been trained for this specific task. He’s in the corner with his phone in hand. The screen illuminates the angles of his face. He looks distracted, maybe even a little bored. Something flutters in my chest that I try to drown out with more whiskey.

“There,” I point, my voice tight. “By the bookshelf.”

Harlowe’s grip on my arm tightens. “What do I say? Should I talk about acting? Or ask about Boston Or–”

“Just talk about whatever comes naturally,” I say, even as a small, selfish part of me hopes nothing comes naturally. “Maybe music or movies or…I don’t know, maybe ask what he thinks about Bell’s class.”

“Good idea.” Harlowe takes a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going in. Wish me luck!”

I plaster on what I hope passes for an encouraging smile as she stands. She adjusts her top and heads toward Elliot. My stomach feels like it’s full of cement, and I wonder if this is what doing the right thing is supposed to feel like. Because is fucking sucks.

“Noelle!” Jason materializes in front of me, beaming like Christmas came early. “We need a fourth for beer pong. Sammy and Kristi are talking shit, and I need a partner who can actually aim.”

I’ve never been more grateful for Jason’s existence in my life.

“Thank god,” I say, standing up so quickly I slosh a bit of whiskey onto my hand. “Lead the way.”

As I follow Jason to the dining room, I wonder if I could convince him to just hit me in the head with a ping-pong ball. Repeatedly. Until I forget I ever saw the way Elliot’s face lit up when Harlowe approached him.

The back patio is where the game is. There’s a folding table with ten red cups at each end, surrounded by a small crowd. The concrete beneath our feet is already sticky with spilled beer, and empty cups litter the ground.

“Ready to dominate?” Jason asks, handing me the ping-pong ball.

“Jesus, Jason. It’s just beer pong.”

“Is the Super Bowl just football?” He looks genuinely offended. “Is Hamlet just a play?”

Sammy and Krist are already at the other end of the table.

“Hope your aim is better than your improv skills,” Sammy calls across the table, grinning.

“At least I can remember my lines without writing them on my hand,” I shot back.

Jason nods approvingly. “That’s the spirit. First team to hit all cups wins. And when it’s your turn,” he adds, turning to me and dropping his voice to a whisper, “visualize the ball entering the cup. Be the ball.”

I take my first shot, and it sails a good foot over the cups and into a nearby shrub.

“More balls in the cup, less in the bushes!” Sammy yells as I take a drink.

The game progresses with Jason providing commentary to anyone who will listen. We’re down to our last three cups, and Sammy and Kristi have four left. The ball bounces off the rum of my cup and rolls under the porch furniture. The universe must have a sick sense of humor, because the ball rolls right to where Elliot and Harlowe are sitting.

I spot the ball resting beneath Elliot’s chair. He’s sitting on one of those cheap plastic patio chairs, listening to Harlowe, who is gesturing animatedly about something. She keeps flipping her hair over her shoulder every few seconds. It seems to be working for her.

“I’ll get it,” I say to Jason before my brain has really thought it through.

Harlowe waves when she sees me approaching but keeps talking to Elliot. “–and that’s why I think tarot is actually a really reliable system. The cards just know, you know?”

I hover awkwardly at the edge of their conversation. “Sorry to interrupt,” I say. “Our ball rolled under your chair.”

Elliot looks up, and for a second, I forget what I’m supposed to be doing. What am I doing again?

Oh right. Ball.

“Under my chair?” He looks down.

“Yeah, it’s…right under you.”

He scoots forward and reaches down. He feels around beneath his seat before he produces the ping-pong ball. When he hands it to me, our fingers brush, and I briefly wonder if I could blame the alcohol for the sudden warmth spreading up my arm. His hand is warm, too, and slightly rough against mine.

“Thanks. I’ve already lost one ball to testicular cancer,” I hear myself say. “Can’t afford to lose the other.”

There’s a beat of silence. Elliot blinks. Then he laughs. It’s deeper, and his shoulders shake. It’s not the reaction most people have to my inappropriate jokes, especially people who barely know me. The realizations that he gets my weird sense of humor lodges itself in my ribs.

I hold on to the laugh like it’s something tangible, like it’s something I could put in my pocket and take it out later when I need it.

“Noelle!” Jason calls. “We’re waiting! We’re close to victory.”

I back away and nearly trip over a discarded solo cup. “Um, thanks. Again.”

As I return to the table, I feel Elliot’s eyes on my back. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t want him to watch me. But if I hope that he does. Jason, visibly buzzing from our near-win, hands me the ball.

I line up my shot and ignore how my pulse thrums in my ears. The alcohol has reached that magic point where I’m just there enough to aim, but not enough to overthink. I toss the ping-pong ball, and it sinks into the cup with a splash.

We’re down to one last cup when Amelia arrives, brandishing a half-empty bottle of tequila.

“Celebrity shot!” I call out to her, relieved to put the pressure on someone else’s shoulders. “Amelia, you nail this, and we win.”

She grabs the ping-pong ball with a mischievous gleam in her eye. In a single motion, she lobs it across the table. It makes a perfect arc before it drops into the remaining cup.

“Holy shit!” Jason whoops as he lifts Amelia off her feet in a bear hug. It makes her shriek with laughter. "That’s it! That’s game!”

We burst into cheers and high-fives. It’s the kind of victory celebration that makes the sticky patio feel like a winner’s podium. For a second, I’m actually happy as I’m caught in the swirl of laughter and that sweet shot of triumph,

The moment would be perfect if I didn’t actually catch sight of Elliot and Harlow in my peripheral vision. He;s laughing at something she said, head tilted toward her, looking nothing like the reserved guy from class. He’s relaxed. He’s engaged. He’s definitely not thinking about my stupid cancer joke.

A twinge of something I can’t quite name tightens in my chest. I snatch the tequila from Amelia’s grasp and tilt it back.

It burns a path down my throat that I hope might cauterize the slow ache creeping through me.

I lower the bottle and force a grin for Jason and Amelia, who are still celebrating like we just won gold. But my gaze drifts again, just for a breath. And it makes me bring the bottle to my lips again.